


Some Dim Light

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Feeding, Force-Feeding, Gen, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Repression, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an attempted escape goes wrong, Valjean falls into depression and is forced to eat to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Dim Light

All pain is the same to him. The cudgel or the lash, the torn feet or torn heart—what does it matter? If there were any room left in Valjean for emotion, it ran its course under the keel of the ship.

The lonely hours of solitary bleed into him until there is nothing. Food comes and goes; guards' indistinct voices ring on the other side of the door. If he is not forced to, he does not move. He sleeps most of the day, and spends the rest in a bland emptiness that does not even have the sting of sadness. A part of him is aware that he is dying. He cannot bring himself to care.

One day, the door to his cell opens, and a guard steps in, wielding his cudgel as if he expects Valjean to fight. He has a bowl of food in hand. Ordinarily, they push it through the slot and leave it at that, but this guard prods Valjean's arm with his cudgel and crouches down. He sets the bowl aside, tucks the cudgel under his arm, and gropes Valjean's arm, his neck, his ribs. Valjean does not even bother struggling. He lies passively and watches the guard through half-lidded eyes. 

The guard clucks his tongue in disgust. "Eat," he says, and sets the bowl within reach of Valjean. "I will be back in half an hour. See that this is gone." 

If he does not obey this order, he will be punished. This he knows. Yet he cannot move; lead sits in his chest, and he can only gaze numbly at the bowl and wait. He must drift asleep at some point, because he is jolted awake by the loud clang of his door opening. The guard steps inside, checks the bowl, and sighs. He leaves without a word, taking the bowl with him, and Valjean slips back into the gray forgiveness of sleep.

When the door opens again, there are three guards standing in the doorway. They bully Valjean to his feet and drag him down the hallway; he tries to walk for them—he truly does—but his feet cannot seem to hold his weight, and the guards do not slow down enough for him to gather his strength beneath him. As they go through the hallway, a fourth guard passes them—then his footsteps falter in the hallway and he turns and follows. "What is going on?" he asks.

"24601 quit eating," the guard at Valjean's left says.

"Can't let the jack die on us," another says, laughing. "Can you imagine Marion's reaction to finding out we've lost him?"

"Is he sick?" the young guard asks. His voice is familiar, perhaps, but all the guards are familiar in one way or another. 

"Sick of being here, perhaps. Do you want to help? We're just off to feed him. I'm sure he'll be a handful once he's woken." 

"Yes, Javert, perhaps you can frighten him with that glare of yours." There is a pause, and then the guard laughs. "Yes, that one!" 

"Enough," a guard who has not spoken yet says; his voice is deep and calm, but its effect on the other guards is immediate, apparent even to Valjean, who is only half-listening. "This is a serious matter, gentlemen. Javert, you have not had to help do this before, correct?"

"Not yet, sir." 

"Then you should come with us." 

The matter settled, the four guards lead Valjean through the labyrinth of Toulon; by the time they reach the hospital, the two at his arms are panting and struggling against his weight, but no one attempts to make him walk. They take him to a secluded room, and sit him in a hard-backed chair; he slumps there, gazing listlessly at the ground. "Watch him," the lead guard says, gesturing at Javert and another guard, and then exits the room. 

"No need for that face, 24601," the guard says cheerily. "Just think—you'll be out in another seven years. That's not so much, is it? Why, by the time you're out, the little children will be grown and you won't have to feed them any longer. That's right, isn't it? Some bread for some 'children'? I never can keep their stories straight, eh, Javert?"

"Be quiet." 

The guard snorts. "Since when do you care?"

"I don't," Javert says. "But surely talking to him like that will only make this more difficult."

At that moment, the others return, bringing with them the sickening smell of mush and beans. It is only then that Valjean stirs; he has heard what they do, here. He lifts his head. There is too much food in their hands—beans and black bread and a mushy porridge and eggs, and the sight of it makes his stomach churn. They also bring a pitcher of water and a horrible metal funnel, and it is the sight of that battered funnel which rouses Valjean to action. They have not chained him to the chair. What little strength is left in him returns—and as the first guard advances, he lunges, knowing even as he does that he should not. He is not aiming to hurt any of the guards, merely run for the door, but they slam into him and he begins to struggle—

"Hold him down, hold him!" 

"Stupid brute—"

And hands and cudgels strike him, and the scream of chains and keys is thick in the air, and then the guards back away from him. All five of the men are flushed and panting heavily; blood drips from the mouth of one of the guards. Valjean tries to move, but his hands are securely chained to the chair, and the chair is bolted to the ground. The lead guard approaches him, kneels, and secures his feet.

"Hand me the funnel," he says, gruff from exertion, "and the porridge." 

Two of the guards hold him by the shoulders; a hand is fisted in his short hair and yanks his head back. Valjean clenches his teeth. He twists against the chains, turns his head away each time the guard attempts to force the funnel into his mouth—and the men get rougher with him, snarling and yanking him upright. The thin end of the funnel is finally forced between his teeth, down his mouth, and he starts to gag on it, would vomit if it he had anything in his stomach. "Stay still," someone snaps. He tries to spit it out, but it is too late—a thick stream of porridge pours into the back of his throat, and he struggles and chokes on it. Some of it dribbles out of his mouth and down his chest. 

Most of it runs down his throat; he swallows reflexively, unable to stop himself. He sucks in a sharp breath and begins to choke in earnest—he coughs and coughs, and the motion of it makes the funnel hit the back of his throat, and he vomits what he's just swallowed down. Someone curses loudly and the lead guard removes the funnel, which is a blessing until he strikes him in the face with his cudgel; pain bursts through his face and blood pours from his nose. It drips in his mouth and into his beard, mixing with porridge and vomit. "God damn it," the guard says. "God damn it, just sit still. What's gotten into you, 24601? Come on, be good. Don't do this." 

Valjean clenches his teeth. 

One of the guards uses his red smock to wipe away most of the mess on his face, and the lead guard presses the funnel between his lips again. "The less you struggle, the quicker it'll be over," he says. "Open your mouth." Valjean does not move. "Open it!" he snaps, a final warning. 

There is nothing more for him to do. Aware of how helpless he is here, and how alone, Valjean relaxes his jaw and lets the funnel be pushed into his mouth again. Again the porridge is poured into him, and he gags on it quietly. 

Then: "Stop." It is said so softly that Valjean cannot believe what he's heard, but the guards all freeze, and the lead guard's grip on the funnel relaxes.

"What was that?" 

"Stop it." The guards' hands relax on his head enough that Valjean can look to see who has spoken—it is Javert. He is incredibly pale, his eyes wild. "He must eat, but—but it does not have to be like this, surely." As he speaks, he seems to gain strength, but the color does not return to his face, and the hand gripping his cudgel shakes. "This is not just." 

One of the guards laughs and releases Valjean with a slap at the back of his head. "Really, Javert? And what would you do, hm? Coo at him like a baby until he takes it?" 

"I wouldn't think you would balk at this," the other guard supplies. 

The lead guard extracts the funnel from Valjean's mouth and turns to face Javert fully. "If you have any suggestions, please, Javert, do let us know."

Javert hesitates at this and drops his gaze. "Sir, I..." He swallows. "He was so limp when we brought him here," he says, finally. "There is no reason to fight him like this now. That is all." 

"He attacked us, Javert—or did you not see that?" 

"Sir..."

"If you cannot handle watching this, that is fine. No one will begrudge you that—there are plenty of other things to keep you busy. Otherwise, either keep quiet, or," and he holds out the funnel to Javert, "show us how you would do it." 

Javert seems to struggle with something for a moment; Valjean watches with vague interest as a drop of sweat runs down Javert's cheek. He is still very pale, even when he squares his shoulders and nods to himself. "I will." He approaches and takes the funnel with another stiff nod; one of the guards laughs, but they all step away, giving the two space. The lead guard sets the bowl of porridge on the table and gestures to Javert. 

It is all very peculiar to Valjean, who can only watch as Javert turns the funnel over in his hand and takes stock of the available food. He sets the funnel down and takes up the pitcher of water, and, much more composed than before, steps up to the chair. "Hold still," he says. Valjean blinks at him. He pours some water over his nose and mouth; it runs down his face and drips onto his chest, cool and clean. Here Javert pauses again, considering his options. It is with a grim face that he takes out his own handkerchief and begins to daub away the mixture of blood, vomit, and porridge from Valjean's face. One of the guards laughs, but Javert does not stop until he has cleared most of it away. "Do you need a drink?" he asks. Valjean stares at him. Javert folds the handkerchief, tucks it in his pocket, and takes a deep breath. "I am going to give you an egg," he says. "Do you understand, 24601?"

He nods. 

Javert picks an egg off the table and uses the nail of his thumb to crack a hole the shell. "If you try to bite me," he warns, "I will hit you in the nose." And he tips the egg to Valjean's lips. 

Some of the egg white slides down Valjean's chin, but he parts his mouth and sucks it down, cringing at the taste. Javert tips it obligingly as he swallows it down, and when the yolk catches on the small opening, he cracks the shell a second time and tips it into Valjean's mouth. He waits until Valjean has swallowed, his eyes trained on his throat, and then, with a solemn nod, turns back to the other guards. 

"Well," the lead guard says, and shrugs. "You clearly have this under control, Javert. You will make sure he eats this all and return him to his cell." He tosses the key to Javert, shrugs at the other guards, and quits the room without another word. 

There is a moment of silence wherein Valjean cannot see Javert's expression—but he sees the shudder that passes through him. "Thank you," he says, and is surprised at the sound of his voice. He does not know how long it's been since he last spoke.

Javert glares at him. "I did not do that for you," he snaps. "Do not mistake this for pity, 24601. It is not right to treat you like—like _things._ That is all." He collects himself, then, and straightens his coat. "Now, I am going to give you two more eggs, and then some of the beans. If you think you are going to vomit, tell me before you do."

He cracks another egg and tips it against Valjean’s mouth; Valjean considers rejecting it, but he does not trust Javert to face resistance kindly. He sucks down the egg, swallowing quickly—but the slimy mucous sticks in his mouth. He breaks the yolk with his teeth before swallowing that, too. It is uncomfortably slick, and his stomach churns—he can still taste the metal mix of blood and bile—but he does not protest when Javert cracks the next egg and holds it to his mouth.

Once that has been eaten, Javert wipes the corners of his mouth and offers him a drink of water. This time, Valjean accepts it, swishing away the last of the mess in his mouth. Javert’s expression does not change as he takes up the bowl of beans. “No spoons, of course,” he mutters. Now that the bowl is close, Valjean can see the beans have been pounded into a sludge—presumably so the mess could be forced down his throat more easily. When Javert holds the rim of the bowl toward him, he leans back in the chair. “No?” he says. “You do not have many options, you know. They want you to eat it all.” 

“I do not want any of it,” he says.

“That is too bad. You will eat it all either way—do not mistake my protestations before; I will do what I must to fulfill my duties. So: What do you want first?”

Valjean swallows. “The porridge.”

“Fine, but the beans will go cold.”

“The porridge,” he repeats.

Javert shrugs, but does as Valjean says and holds the porridge to his mouth. It is a messy business, and Valjean finds he has to eat it quickly or risk choking—Javert does not force it, but he tips the bowl at a steady angle that gives little room for pause. When Valjean has finished, Javert runs a finger through the dregs of porridge and begins to extend his hand to Valjean—and then freezes. Valjean blinks at him, weary.

He scrapes the porridge back into the bowl. He addresses the table as he asks, “Do you need more water?”

“No.”

“Which now?”

Valjean considers his options. The food, in spite of him, has roused him somewhat, and he finds himself sitting straighter. “The beans.”

Javert picks up the bowl. “As I said—now they are cold.” But he tips the bowl against Valjean’s mouth, and scrapes them with his fingers so Valjean’s tongue can reach them. The texture is enough to make Valjean gag; at the sound, Javert jerks away. “God help you if you vomit,” he says.

Valjean forces himself to swallow. 

“I told you,” Javert says, pale again, peevish. “It’s disgusting, isn’t it? Like eating cold shit.”

Valjean glares at him. 

“Well, too bad. Just think about the bread.” He runs his hand along the inside of the bowl, scooping what is left into a small clump. He tips the bowl toward Valjean’s face—and as Valjean struggles to choke down the rest, he glances up a moment, and notes Javert’s tension, the drawn lines in his face. For the first time it occurs to him to wonder why the sight of the guards forcing the funnel on him bothered Javert—surely he has seen and done worse. This is Toulon. 

When Javert notices the attention, he asks, “Is it true, what Travere said? That you were arrested for stealing bread?”

Valjean does not want to have this discussion—not now, not with him, not with the thick clot of beans like cold shit in his mouth. But he nods.

Javert scoffs. “I suppose you thought that would save them.” He checks to see that the bowl is empty—close enough, evidently—and thumbs at Valjean’s chin and mouth, wiping away traces of food. “A convict’s logic. If you had not been caught, what then? One loaf might last a few days. Then what? Steal another? And look what you’ve done now.” He plucks an egg from the table and neatly cracks it with his thumb. It occurs to Valjean that he must have eaten eggs like this many times before—cracking a neat hole in the shell and sucking out the nutrients. He is incapable of imagining a Javert who would do such a thing, but nothing else would explain his familiarity with it. “You try to escape, but what would you do if you succeeded? No one would hire you. To feed them you would have to resort again to thieving to survive, and—”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Valjean says.

“No,” Javert says. He turns the egg in his hand. “No, it does not. The child is probably dead.”

Valjean would be angered by this, but he cannot summon it here, now; it is the truth, and it sinks him like a stone, and the gray weariness returns to him. He is not surprised by Javert’s coldness—how could he be, when his cruelty is surely just around the corner? He is a guard. He is not given to empathy. 

Javert offers him the egg. It is wet and cool in his mouth. When he has finished it, Javert wipes at his mouth again, rough and brisk, but Valjean notices how his hands are smeared with traces of food, and he is aware of their positions: Valjean in chains, Javert looming over him, close. That Javert should touch him freely is alien, and Valjean has no proper response to it. 

The food is heavy in him, his stomach full and weighted, stretched painfully. He cannot eat anymore. He won’t.

“That is all,” Javert says, “except the bread. Here. What a pitiful piece.” He tears off the corner and tests it between his fingers—and, finding it stiff, dips it in the pitcher of water to soften it. His fingers are damp as he offers it to Valjean.

His lips close around the tips of Javert’s fingers. He can taste salt.

Javert snaps his hand away, his lips a thin white line. But he dips the next piece of bread in water as Valjean chews, and offers it to him, and waits as he eats it. Valjean does not think he will be able to finish the whole slice, but he does, bit by bit. It is the only part of the meal that does not make him want to vomit, but it comes with its own complications: It requires Javert's fingers to brush at his lips with each bite, despite the guard's attempts to avoid this, and Valjean is already so full that the black bread is hard to swallow. Something about the act of feeding Valjean seems to agitate Javert. He mutters to himself under his breath as he dips the bread in water, and he stares with such intensity that Valjean, wrapped in misery as he is, is nervous. 

But when the bread is finished, Javert only offers him a drink of water and then pours more on his face so that he can clean the rest of his face with his dirtied handkerchief. Satisfied with his work, Javert unchains him—not even bothering with threats—and leads Valjean back through the stone hallways, back to the black solitude of his cell. 

He stands in the doorway a moment, studying him. "You have done this to yourself," he says. "Remember that." 

The door shuts with a groan.

Valjean curls up on the straw, holding his stomach, tasting salt.

*

Later, a plate of food is pushed through the slot. But Valjean is not there. He is in Faverolles. He is safe. It has been many years since he walked those streets, even in dreams, but he is not a stranger there.

The plate of food is taken back. Later still, another one is pushed through, but this time he is back in Toulon and immobile with misery. His stomach is empty. 

He can taste salt.

*

The door clangs open. Valjean does not stir.

The guard that enters has a plate of food and a small lantern; the hallways outside are dimly lit by torches. It must be very late. As the guard approaches, Valjean can see that it is Javert; he is frowning, armed with his cudgel. He kneels by Valjean and presses the back of his hand against his forehead, and then, with a soft contemplative sound, checks his legs. "Are you sick?" he asks.

Valjean does not move—perhaps if he stays very still, Javert will give up and leave. 

Javert sighs. "Sit up," he says. Valjean knows he should, and so tries to muster up the energy to obey, but he does not move; he finds that he is not so afraid of Javert's cruelty. "Sit up, 24601," he says with more force. He unhooks his cudgel from his belt and nudges it under Valjean's chin. "Up, you stupid brute," he snaps. Sluggish, Valjean obeys. 

The cell is quiet. He could kill Javert and leave through the open door—and this thought makes his fingers itch, but he does not attempt it, not with the cudgel braced against his jaw and neck.

"Here," he says. "I've been ordered to make sure you eat this." Keeping the cudgel braced against Valjean, he picks up the plate and holds it out to him. "They've even deigned to provide a spoon." 

Valjean does not take it. 

After a moment, Javert sighs and shakes his head. "You are not worth this much trouble, surely," he grumbles, tucking his cudgel under his arm. "Eat. Here." He takes a spoonful of the stew and holds it to Valjean's lips. Yes, it would be easy to kill him. He is a competent guard, but he is weaker than Valjean—and with the right press at his throat, he would never utter a scream. His last words would be that neutral command. 

But the stew is warm, and he is insistent but not cruel, and he shook at the sight of Valjean's suffering. 

Valjean opens his mouth. 

At some point, he realizes that he is strong enough to take the bowl from Javert and eat on his own, that it would be easier, that he is stirring from the black waters of his mind. He does not take it, instead accepting each spoonful slowly, waiting for Javert's patience to break. Soon the bowl is empty, and there is only a lump of bread left, soggy and soft from sitting in the stew. It is a lighter color than the black bread he is used to, and when Javert holds it to his mouth, he is shocked by the taste—it is savory and sweet. He makes a soft sound of surprise without meaning to, and Javert's hand draws back. 

For the first time since he started eating, he looks into Javert's face. He does not understand what he sees—is not sure what is an illusion of the low light from the lantern and what impulse drives Javert to stare at him like that. He ducks his head instinctively. Look down, he thinks. Do not look him in the eye. 

Javert shudders. "Take it," he says, suddenly, and thrusts the remaining bit of bread into his hand. He grabs the lantern off the ground and stands—his cudgel slips from under his arm and clatters noisily on the floor, and he curses under his breath. He bends over and fumbles for it. "You will be out of solitary, soon," he says, straightening to his full height. "Eat on your own, tomorrow. I am tired of you." 

He slams the door shut behind him.

*

Valjean has not escaped the black waters that have claimed him, but he floats on the surface, now, and can see the horizon of hope. He will be out of solitary, soon. The sun will warm his bearded face, and his body will burn and ache from work; he will become an animal, which is one step closer to becoming a man. He finds that he is angry with Javert for how callously he spoke of Valjean's past—but to burn with hate is to come back to oneself, and he welcomes this change in him.

The next time a plate is pushed through the slot of his cell, he goes to it, seeking strength.


End file.
